


in sick health

by charlesworthy



Category: Fire Emblem: The Sacred Stones
Genre: Gen, Graphic Description of Corpses, Possession, Zombies, also lyon throws up so emeto warning, not super graphic imo but be careful please
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-03
Updated: 2017-05-03
Packaged: 2018-10-27 04:15:25
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,465
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10801485
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/charlesworthy/pseuds/charlesworthy
Summary: There was darkness inside Lyon, pressing against the inside of his skin.  He tried so hard to reach forward and take back control of his own hands, but it was always too hard without a little help...-canon rewrite of orson and his beloved





	in sick health

**Author's Note:**

> small font bc i copy/pasted from my tumblr and it's so hard to format here on ao3. enjoy.

A scream echoed in Lyon’s head.  He tried to ignore it.

Entering Orson’s chambers was quite a sight.  The man had the curtains drawn, Lyon briefly remembered hearing him murmur once that Monica didn’t like the light?

And why would she?  The woman she once was had completely left now.  In her place, a mess of rotting flesh and knotted hair, bloody, oozing wounds and skin peeling away at every joint.  She’d been such a bother to revive, Lyon recalled.  Breathing life into the dead body of his father was hard enough, a huge feat defying every known law and practice that he could have imagined.  Monica had been dead for months before she rose.  The first corpse Lyon had raised, he’d attempted to pull his soul back from the void, or ether, or wherever a soul might have gone off to.  With Monica, Lyon scraped together the ethereal equivalent of dirt and mud, shoving it harshly in her heart or head or wherever the soul was meant to sit, and stitched her up with as much disinterest one could maintain through such an act.

She might have been beautiful once, but her eyes had been long consumed by rats.  Her skin was stretched tightly over the places it remained, and where it did not her muscles and veins bulged grotesquely.  Despite her stench and decay, she did not bleed.

Riev had said it would be more amusing if she had.  Dragging Orson down from proud knight to groveling madman had been an event the Blood Beryl took much delight in, to see the madman covered in the blood of his beloved, in any context, would have been sweeter.

Lyon could not relate.

“What is it, Monica?“  Orson clearly did not notice their entrance.  He was too busy grinning, doting over his dearly departed.  "You seem so happy today.  Of COURSE I know what today is.  I’d never forget your birthday!  I have a present for you, dear.  I think you’ll like it….”

The twisted bishop let out a cackle by Lyon’s side.  

"Orson,” he called.  The paladin did not move.

Riev cackled again.  His voice fell from his mouth like poisoned syrup.  “It does my heart good to see you looking so happy, Orson. See what joy your treachery has brought you? I told you treason would be sweet.”

The man turned, making a sound similar to an aggressive, cornered animal.  Lyon held one hand out, stepping forward.  He carried an aura of authority, the way his nose stuck in the air made it clear he had complete control over the situation.

“Do you still recognize me, Orson, or are you entirely lost to this world?“  Lyon gave him ample enough time to respond, but Orson remained silent.  Lyon put the words that belonged in Orson’s mouth.  "Yes, it’s me, Prince Lyon. I’m the one to whom you are indebted for resurrecting your beloved wife.”

“…Get out,” Orson’s response was cold and icy.  "This is Monica and my place. I will not have our home disturbed by anyone.“  He averted his gaze from Lyon’s look.  Something in the prince’s eyes was too infinitely dark to face without losing your confidence.  The voice that continued from Orson was that of a broken man, sad, but with an edge.  It made Lyon wonder if Orson hadn’t just tried forget everything in his life asides from the disgusting, rotting woman at his side.  "I did as you asked. I betrayed Renais. My promise has been kept.”

Lyon’s own voice was cold, but carried a tone of bemusement.  “Yes, and I’m very grateful to you. I came by today to offer you a piece of advice. Nothing more.”

Watching Orson’s face, the prince was unsure if he were even listening.

“Ephraim is coming, Orson. He’s on his way here to steal the happiness you two share.”  Here, Lyon spoke as he would a child.  He could be spinning a tale of the boogie man, come to take away all the child’s toys, and his tone would not have changed in the slightest.

"He and Eirika have joined forces,” Riev added, helpfully.  "Even now, their united forces march toward the capital, toward you.”

“Prince Ephraim?  Eirika?”

Riev giggled.  "You can’t imagine–“

"Silence,” Lyon commanded.  His dark, icy gaze stole the wicked look off Riev’s face, but only for a moment.  When the prince returned his gaze to the traitor, he didn’t see the devilish grin that replaced itself on Riev’s face.  Miraculously, the bishop did not laugh.

Lyon himself was silent for a moment, eyes shut.  His facade may have been one of minor frustration, but he was struggling to keep something down.  It was a peculiar feeling.  After taking a brief moment to settle himself, he continued.

“That’s right, Orson.“  A small smirk crossed Lyon’s face.  "And he’s angry. I don’t think he’ll forgive you for betraying Renais. You’ve done so much to free your wife from the grave. It’s a shame she’ll die with you.”

Riev’s eyes were wild. "And after all you did to free your wife from the cold clutches of the grave?”

“No! That can’t happen–“

Orson sprung forward, but his posture went slack once more.  His eyes slid over to Monica, still, sitting primly on the king sized bed.  She wore a beautiful gown.  It was not the one she’d been wearing when Lyon revived her.  This one was of shiny, new satins, picking up the poor lighting of the room the best that it could.  Its pink color was amusing.  Her dress was so vividly rose-hued, and yet her body was grey and lifeless.  "Darling…“ she murmured.

Riev, Lyon was certain, found the entire thing amusing.  "Oh, but it can, and it will. Unless you do something to stop it. You understand what is required, don’t you? You have your orders, Orson.”

“That’s all I have to say to you. What you do now is up to you.”

Lyons hands shook as he gracefully turned on his heel, cloak swishing gently with the motion.  He and Riev took their leaves from Orson’s room, though Lyon’s steps weren’t sure.

“…Monica, I’m sorry. I have something I must do…“

Orson’s voice faded as the two departed, muddled behind thick walls and melding with the harsh, labored breaths that Prince Lyon was now pumping out.  He bent over, digging his hands into his scalp.

"Hhh… Hhhhh…”

His heart was pounding against his ribcage, a painful reminder of life beating against his ears.  "W-why?  This…  Terrible, it’s–“

He wretched, doubling over himself.  His hands moved to hug his stomach, fingers digging into his sides as he finally threw up.  There was nothing but bile in his stomach, his body had been without food in…  How long?

He thought it was odd that was what he was trying to determine, even as another fit struck his body and forced more of the nothing that had been inside his stomach out.  It hurt.  The pain reminded him he still yet lived.

“Oh my,” Riev cooed, closing the distance between himself and his liege.  Lyon could barely move, but he wanted to get away from him.  "Your nasty little illness rearing its ugly little head again?“

"G-G… Guh,” Lyon stammered.  The back of his throat burned from the heat of his sickness.  Hot, wet tears rolled down his cheek.  Monica was hideous, ugly, a crime against all that was good and holy, and yet– and _yet_ Lyon remembered so clearly putting the spark of life inside her rotting body.  He remembered offering his hand to her, willing her to take it, his dark magic curling inside her body and guiding her motions as he presented her to Orson.  He remembered smiling at seeing the two together – Orson swearing fealty as long as Lyon never retract this beloved, precious gift he’d imparted.

Riev was there, too.  "There’s no need to worry. The pain will pass shortly.  Leave everything to your humble servant, Riev.“

Lyon balled one fist and stuck it in his eye.  He wished the tears would stop, but that was a minor detail weighed amongst all others.  He didn’t like Riev, he’d never liked Riev, but he loved how stupidly violent the man had been, how incredibly cruel and arbitrary his interests.  The bishop was a brutal soldier who killed for sport, who did Lyon’s bidding simply because it interested him, and that was what made him valuable to the prince.

Lyon hated him so.

"Please,” Lyon whimpered.  "Please…  Please, no, _please…_ “

And the prince stood, back straight, shoulders squared.  He raised a delicate hand to his mouth, wiping away any remnant of his earlier sick.  "Shall we away to Rausten?” Lyon asked Riev.  "I’d prefer to see the twins’ corpses before I ever see them next alive.“


End file.
